Deadly
by HungerGames226
Summary: The Dark Days have been over for two years. The districts have been waiting. The First Annual Hunger Games have arrived.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So I thought of doing a story on the first Hunger Games a few weeks ago. . . and. . . ta-daa :) I'd like about 5 reviews till I upload the next chapter. Hope you enjoy! **

Evening is coming. The setting-sun casts an eerie shadow over the ruins of District 9. The broken, charred remains of what we once called homes. The dying wheat in which we are expected still to meet our weekly quota. Of course, we had begun to clean up, but there was a feeling of angst among the population of our district. Only 700 remain in 9 after the dark days, less than half of our original population.

That was before the Dark Days.

The Capitol had us working like slaves. Miserable, miserable people. At least in the outer-lying districts, unlike 1 and 2. We worked from dawn to dusk in whatever our district's industry was, whether it be harvesting, mining, fishing or raising livestock. We were starving. Poor, thirsty, tired. The districts grew restless, wanting more. Wanting justice. So they launched a rebellion against the Capitol.

The Capitol won, in the end. It always does. The Capitol _always _overcomes in the end, which the districts failed to recognize. Always.

You'd think that after two years, we'd be back in tip-top shape construction wise. Wrong. So little of us are in 9 and so many are needed to harvest, that we rarely have time to clean up. To rebuild. Many nights we sleep in tents that we made from random pieces of fabric and clothing. Only about a tenth of the District is in a house. Most nights we rotate. And tonight we'll have a real roof over our head, my mother and I.

It's there, though. The shiny Capitol-issued projector that remains pristine and smooth, sleek and silver. For important Capitol announcements and things. Nothing for enjoyment.

At this time I am supposed to be returning to our small shack, and I was supposed to be home twenty minutes ago. I walk daily along the edge of the dying field, to distract myself. My mother is okay with it, to a degree. As long as I return home.

Tucking a stubborn, greasy strand of dark brown hair behind my ear, I face the other direction and start walking. I can see the house from here, but it's still far away. A dot on the horizon.

I see the rusty, dirt covered scythe in the distance that the harvesters used before the war. I've seen it a thousand times from my walks, but have never picked it up. Somehow I feel that after the announcement tonight, I won't be taking too many more walks. So I ease over to it and get to my knees, digging it out.

It's more packed in than I thought. I have to dig for a few minutes - getting my fingernails dirtier than they already are - and wipe them off in the grass when I realize it won't work. I try pulling it out, to no avail. I take a deep breath, and with some elbow grease, yank it as hard as I can. It's so heavy it pulls me backwards. I know father had one before he died, and he showed my brother how to use it on his free Thursdays. Each farmer got their own free day, because there was still work needed on Sundays. My father was assigned Thursdays. I remember him showing my brother, who was 13 at the time, as I sat in the grass playing with the cloth dolls I helped my mother make. I picked up a few things, I guess. Right before the Dark Days, my father asked if I wanted to learn, too.

It's a lot heavier than I remember, but I guess my father helped me hold it and use it. Now I'm on my own. The long staff it broken in half with sharp wood shards on the bottom. I put it down in the grass.

I sigh as I make my way towards what is - or what _used _to be - the central town, Charn. I used to live there, as a ten year-old, in a small wooden home that was cramped but better than the shack. Right now it consists of two shacks, hundreds of tents and constant debris, and that's all. I find myself having to climb over the stuff just to reach the shack that we're using tonight.

"Penelope Tarret, you had me worried sick," my mother says with her hands on her hips as I enter. "How was I supposed to know what happened to you, out there twenty minutes late?"

My shoulders slump and I look down to the floor. "I'm sorry," I croak out. I'm about the shyest person you'd ever meet. I avoid her pale, icy blue eyes tinged with grey, so unlike my own deep brown ones. Her bright red hair has been hastily braided down the back and pinned back with a few bobby pins she managed to save. As if she'd need them someday.

My mother is wearing a worn brown dress with ragged sleeves and buttons that could fall off any second. She's hastily put her hair back with some yarn she managed to find, and her dirty feet are bare. My father died in the rebellion. He wasn't even a rebel, he was right here with us. My mother, father, brother and I, huddled inside our home with the curtains drawn, waiting for the last few bombs. If there were any last ones.

Then came the silence. "I think it's safe to go out," my father said. We got up tentatively and tried to go out the door, but he stopped us. "I'm going to make sure, first."

He walked outside and my mother sighed and took her two children close. She closed her eyes shut with two fingers, as if fighting off a headache. I don't know how long we might have stayed there, but the ear-splitting explosion snapped us out of our daze. We never saw our father again.

My brother, a who was sixteen years old at the time, killed himself, unable to live without the man he called father. It broke my mother, I think, and she's been stern and overprotective ever since.

* * *

In our makeshift home there are exactly two things. A dirty cot and a glistening Capitol-issued projector. "There's a mandatory programming tonight," my mother finally says. "It should be starting any minute."

My stomach clenches. Whatever it is, it can't be good.

She tells me to reach and click the switch on the left of the projector, and it comes to life on the wooden wall. Sure enough, Julius Jaime is in a glistening suit, in front of a fazed but adoring Capitol crowd. To my surprise, my mother clenches my hand as President Marx comes out onto his podium with a crisp white paper. He opens his mouth.

"From the Treaty of Treason," he begins. "In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public 'Reaping'. These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol, and then transferred to a public arena, where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as 'The Hunger Games'."

My mother's expression turns from confused to angry to horrified. She looks at me, and I am unable to form words. A fight to the death. Children 12 to 18. One Victor.

* * *

The day of the Reaping is sweltering. The air is still and it is unbearably hot. There are only about 500 kids between 12 and 18 in District 9, so although it's not very crowded, we're sweating through our clothes. I have taken tesserae, which has gotten us by a little easier. Mother refuses to speak about it. I must have taken more than any other kid here. I'm bound to be chosen.

When it seems as if there's going to be no Reaping, because of the wait, an oddly-dressed woman from the Capitol struts onto the stage. Her spiky golden hair is streaked with crimson red, and her whole outfit is highlighted in the same color. Her lips are unhealthily small and puckered, and I wonder if they were surgically altered or if it's just makeup. Either way, it can't be natural.

"Welcome," she says with a grin, "Happy Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She grins, and everything about her is already out-of-place with the somber feeling of the District. "My name is Drucilla Paisley, and it is my _honor _to be escorting the District 9 tributes. Now, we before we begin the selection, there a few important things you must know. . ."

She goes on reviewing the rules, and I know this will be the same for the other districts. It's the first year, they wouldn't want any misunderstandings, now would they? They also play the video about the Dark Days, reminding us. As if we'd ever forget. And then we get to the selection.

I stand on the girls side, which isn't very crowded, as she tiptoes over to the Reaping bowl. One name comes out.

"Penelope Tarrett," she reads off.

It's as if nothing happened, the way I react. I just keep staring at the card. The deep clench in my stomach is what tells me to move. Wouldn't want to waste time.

Of the 500-odd children standing around me, none of my old friends survived the Dark Days. So there's no one to give me horrified expressions. No one to console me besides my mother. I quickly walk to the stage, not surprised in the least. Upset, but still not surprised. I expected this. I just want this to be over, without making a big fuss.

"And for the boys. . ." she pulls a slip from the boy's bowl, "Abel Stilman."

I don't think I've ever heard of him before. He appears to be around 17, with hair so red and coppery you'd think his head was on fire. His features are broad and he has lots of freckles over his pale but pimply face. Thankfully, I don't know him. Maybe I won't have to kill him.

We shake hands, and we're escorted inside the Justice Building, which has been built for this very event.

The inside is grander than anything I've ever seen before. Leather sofas and velvet chair and mahogany as dark as night surround me. Books of law and justice - all from the Capitol, of course - a globe, fake flowers, and a crystal chandelier overhead. Although it has an annoying scent that tickles my nose.

Almost immediately my mother comes in. Her usual scowling expression and tense eyebrows have disappeared, leaving just a fearful young woman. She can't be older than 40, I should say, and used to be beautiful and youthful. The Dark Days changed her. Aged her.

She's crying, not me. Which is a little ironic.

We sit there for three minutes, her crying, unable to look at me. She holds my hand and squeezes it when the worse sobs come. I stare out the window at the beautiful, bright sky, and it's ironic that it's such a bad day for sunshine.

When the Peacekeeper comes in to escort her out, she is overcome with hysteria. "No," she screams, "No! That's my baby! That's my baby!…" She's lost everyone she's ever cared for. My father and my brother. And now, me, as well. That's when I tighten my grip on the leather handle of the chair, my eyebrows furrow, and my eyes harden at the closed door, hearing my mother scream bloody murder as she's restrained by the Peacekeeper and escorted down the hallway. Thinking that she'll lose me.

But that's when I say to myself, "No, she won't."


	2. Chapter 2

"You lift a finger, I kill you here and now."

This is the first thing Abel tells me on the train. I am not sure how to react; whether to run, hide, stay quiet, or give a shocking, vulgar response for a thirteen year-old girl. Instead I sit with my mouth open, not able to form words like that day of the announcement. I'm sort of in shock: I can understand why he'd be sharp, but not violent. I guess he's already trying to stay alive.

I've not known him for two minutes, but I've decided I won't give him that satisfaction.

I finally remember how to close my mouth and my head tentatively shakes up and down. He sighs and rests his large arms on the dark green chair, looking away from me, out the window. The train has just pulled out, and this might be our last chance to see our district, so I can't blame him. The hypnotic, endless array of wheat spreads out over vast fields, and they glint in the sunlight and sway in the mild breeze. I very well could be eating some of those come tomorrow; because all of our wheat ends up on Capitolian plates, one way or another. This luxury is something the Districts have never had, they provide the Capitol and the Capitol only. Other than that, we fend for ourselves.

Drucilla comes in through an automatic door behind us, grinning. My head whips around, startled, but I notice Abel remains looking out the window. "Hello, hello," she says, grinning, "Welcome, Abel, and. . .and. . ." She's already forgotten my name.

"Penelope," I intone, embarrassed.

"Ah, yes, Penelope." She gives me a pitied look, and I look down to my lap.

"Now, you two might be upset, but you should focus on the _positive _side of things," she suggests. Abel turns his head around in a quick, sharp jerk, and snarls at her.

"What 'positive' side is there to this?" He demands.

"Just look around you, Abel," she tells him softly, "You'll get to live like _this_. . .for a week, of course."

This is when I actually notice how beautiful the train it. There are countless chairs and wooden accents, glossy metal platters with finger foods and drinks. Chandeliers give the compartments a warm glow, and the whole train interior is highlighted in a dark forest green. There are lace doilies everywhere, along with other trinkets and random things like that. This is the fancy side of the Capitol. Where we're going is the freakish side.

"Wow," I whisper as I open my bedroom door. The green velvet curtains are open, and it has started to rain in whatever district we're in. There are rundown apartments and clotheslines and all dirt or gravel, and I think that's District 8. My bed has a canopy around it for privacy, and there is a white heater in front of my bed. The dark, glossy wood gives everything a cozy feeling, along with the few lamps that make it dim and dark. I always liked rainy days, when I'm indoors.

There's also a wardrobe. A white one, standing tall and proud in the corner of my room. I open it to find it empty, except for expensive jewelry. There's also a telephone on my nightstand. I decide to lie on my stomach on the bed and warm up by the heater. I take out my ponytail and shake the long, dark strands, a hundred strokes, like my mother used to do. I order a cup of lavender tea and sip it slowly, wishing I could be in this moment forever. Eventually I crawl up into bed, comfy, falling asleep to the sound of rain pattering on the train window.

* * *

The wardrobe is full when I wake up. There's now shoes, dresses, undergarments, pants, blouses, socks, jewelry, hair accessories, scarves, even a little makeup. They must've come in while I was sleeping and stocked up, guessing my size.

I fell asleep in my brown dress, which won't do. Not in the Capitol. I lock my door and slip it off, throwing it onto the smooth sheets I rumpled the night before. On the inside of the wardrobe door there's a mirror, and I am overwhelmed by how frighteningly thin my body has become. There's not much food in my District these days; most people hollow-cheeked and deathly skinny. I have no exception. I slip on a white silk dress with thin straps and comes down to my knees. Smoothing it against my stomach and turning to the side, I can see in the mirror the curves I'm starting to develop. At the waist. On the chest. I stroke a finger over my stomach, which is so thin you can practically feel every organism in there. It's repulsive. The under-dress hangs loosely, a little too loosely, on my body. I have a lingering stare at it, disgusted by it, and eventually shake my head and look away from the mirror; focusing on what I will wear to greet the Capitolians.

A sky-blue shirt that is smooth against my torso. A knee-length skirt made from a shiny black material, the only one I can find that hugs my thighs. White stockings. Shiny white shoes that squeak and catch the light of the open window, where I can see the train soars against a grassy, lush place, dotted with gated communities or sprawling mansions or restaurants or public parks. Must be District 1.

This will look pretty enough, I think. It fits me. My personality.

I head out to the dining car, where I get nods of approval from Drucilla. Abel has yet to arrive. He's probably sleeping in, or plotting more ways to kill people. To kill me. I shake away from the thought and hurriedly sit down at the dining table, on one of the cushioned benches that serves as our seating. There's batter cakes with endless dips and toppings, fresh fruit, French toast, sausages, strips of something Drucilla tells me is called bacon, and countless drinks. I ask for a glass of juice made from oranges, a pungent fruit with a satisfying taste. A few minutes later, Abel arrives in the same clothes he wore yesterday, and messy bed-head. I have to stifle a laugh. The red hair sticks out on one side at least three inches, and looks utterly ridiculous.

"Good morning, you two," Drucilla tells us while sipping wine. She turns her head to look out the window and says, "Isn't District 1 beautiful? They make luxury items, you know."

I do know. That's why they're wealthier than everyone else, better fed than anyone else, and loved by the Capitol more than anyone else. Except for District 2, who allied with the Capitol during the Dark Days. The green, rolling hillsides go on forever, with the azure sky and soft white clouds. Here and there are sprawling mansions, with fountains and swimming pools and ponds and fancy automobiles. I can see in the distance is more populated, with communities of these types of houses, maybe apartments for the diamond miners. Fountains and plazas and stores and restaurants and bakeries, things all towns are supposed to have. Except for District 9.

"Absolutely gorgeous," Abel says sarcastically. Drucilla shoots him a look.

It _is _pretty. They were the fortunate ones. The most fortunate of all of us. What did they do, I wonder, do deserve such luxury? It was not their choice, I suppose. They were born into it. Their standard of living is the best only second to the Capitol, even after the rebellion.

Suddenly the compartment goes dark, for a quick second. Flashes of light. The train shakes a little bit now. "We're arriving," Abel says, "We must be under a tunnel." I steady myself down on the bench and wait until we're out of the tunnel. It goes dark, as we continue to move, until the bright light of day comes out overwhelming and blinding. As I inch closer to the window, I realize it's not just the sun - it's the Capitol buildings, glinting in the sunlight, reflecting everywhere into a dazzling array of light.

"That's amazing," I say quietly. "It's beautiful."

It is. It's huge, and all the buildings are sturdy and stone or abstract and golden. I can hear the roar of the crowds as we pull into the station, seeing the Capitol at it's most abstract for the first time. The people here have dyed irises, tattoos, gem-implanted skin, and other things. I wave to them slowly, my eyes fixated on a woman with a close-cropped cut of hair on one side, the other hanging loose in neon green stripes.

"Come on," I say to Abel, "Come."

Abel hurries to the window, and he furrows his eyebrows. He doesn't like anything about this predicament. But he's going to have to suck it up, or he'll be dead in five minutes.

However I die, I hope it'll be quick.


	3. Chapter 3

We're settled into our apartments by ten o'clock. The Capitol residents - wealthy aristocrats who seem to do nothing but feast all day and decorate their bodies in hi-tech makeup and clothing - are becoming excited; I can tell. Already, they have wagers up on who will die first, second, third, who will be victor, and who will kill who. Just the thought of it sends a shiver up my spine, which is frighteningly visible from the lack of food I've been having despite the insane amount of tesserae I've taken out.

Which leads my right back here to my current predicament. What was the point of that tesserae? My mother didn't want me to take it out, but I knew we needed it. A little more grain and oil - funny, we need so much grain in the district where it is most fertile.

The apartment is beyond spacious, probably bigger than all of Charn's buildings put together. There are so many colors - some beautiful, captivating, like a deep pink and light green - but then there are the stone colors, black flecked with silver and granite and marble - and, of course, the hideous, too-bright colors like acid green and rotten yellow. But it all forms together into one big living area, a dining room, and five bedrooms. Everything seems sort of . . .off-balance. Nothing's symmetric.

"Wow," Abel exclaims. "What a beaut." He gazes at everything and pushes right past me to check out a silver lamp that's shaped like an abstract plant, with spiky silver leaves and rested in a rug of silvery plush grass. I don't mind that he's ignoring me - in fact, I accept it. Embrace it, even. Just one less threat in the arena.

Drucilla comes in right on our heels, her high heeled shoes clacking on the smooth, cold stone surface of the Capitol floors. She keeps an impeccable posture as she walks, her head held high, her back straight. "Do you like it?" She asks with an idiotic grin on her face. She blinks a lot, too - and her mouth is open so long I fear she'll catch bugs, even in this spotless living condition.

"Yes," I reply, already heading towards the back where the bedrooms are. "It's absolutely amazing."

"I know, I know," Drucilla says excitedly. She claps her hands together and sighs. "I knew you would love it." But she doesn't hesitate to get down to business. She clears her throat - quietly, of course - and speaks. "Lunch shall be ready at promptly eleven-thirty. You'll be notified, of course, but I'd suggest cleaning yourselves up a bit before then. You'll be whisked away for the chariot parade right after lunch."

Oh, right. The chariot parade. From what I gather, we'll be dressed up in gaudy costumes and paraded down Main Avenue, all the tributes televised together for what may be the first time in history. "This is the first ever chariot parade, so you'll want to make a good impression. Not to mention make a few potential sponsors," she adds.

Sponsors.

Just another thing to add to the list of worries.

* * *

The view from my bedroom is outstanding. The large, concrete sculptures of the Capitol seem to glow, and reflect the light of the mid-morning sun into my bedroom. The temperature is cool, but the summer air outside makes the air conditioning a relief. But the Capitol is so bright, so alive, so vivacious. So unlike my home is, or ever was, to my knowledge. The citizens here are adorned with everything you can imagine.

I'm already taken with resting on my windowsill, watching the Capitolites stroll throughout the city, going about their daily business. Anything to take my mind off of the dreaded weeks ahead.

But eventually I force myself to peel away from the windowsill and into the shower, which takes me at least ten minutes to figure out. But eventually I'm standing in a lukewarm shower with so many mechanisms and soaps to choose from that I just set it to "randomize" and let it run without my supervision. Eventually I smell like a mix of lavender, honey, and lemon, so it doesn't really matter.

When I exit the shower into the steaming room, I am greeted by warm air blasting at my from all sides, drying me instantly. "Thanks," I say out loud. A smooth, silky white bathrobe awaits me on the door, and I put it on.

Then come the closets - they must have had the clothes specifically tailored for me after the reaping. I just press a button, and the slate grey walls turn into panels which rotate around, the whole room really just a closet.

I select a light blue tunic with a shawl and a tight black skirt, and slip into some forest green slippers that cascade my feet with luxury. I am stepping into heaven - literally. I make my way out into the dining hall, where Abel and Drucilla await me.

"Just on time!" Drucilla explains, pointing to the electronic clock that hangs on the wall. Eleven twenty-nine, right on the spot. "Shall we eat?" She asks. Immediately, strange people with white faces, cloaked in red, glide out with platter upon platter upon platter of some of the most grotesque - but some of the most gorgeous - foods I've ever seen.

Turquoise fish with eyes replaced with gems, strange colorful jelly adorned with orchids, meats from animals I've never even heard of before. Chocolate fountains, breads, exotic cheeses and fruits. Juice, punch, wine, mineral water, chocolate milk by the bucket.

It's so much food, and it's so rich, I'm not sure I can hold it down. I just hope I don't puke it up during the chariot parade. Now that wouldn't be the right way to go; I'd lose sponsors before I gained any.

We finish with lunch - slowly, of course - and immediately we're whisked down to the Remake Center. It's a large, gymnasium-sized structure, with shiny tile floors and stone walls, with twenty-four little compartments that serve for all of the tributes. I can see the tubes and glasses of colorful liquids, hairdryers, shampoo bottles, makeup, and clothing bags. I shut my eyes, only to be popped open again by the clack of heels on the tile floor.

"Hello, hello," Drucilla says, "Abel, Penelope. Meet your stylists and your prep teams." She extends a hand towards a man with a perfect green mustache and a bald head. "Penelope, this is your stylist, Antonio. My brother, no less," she reveals. She waves us off politely towards what must be my compartment, and they shut the door.

* * *

After what must be two hours of hair trimming, leg waxing, eyebrow plucking, intense moisturizing, and other procedures I didn't even understand, they deem me ready to be dressed and paraded around the Capitol. My skin, baby pink and tingling, can't handle anymore. They've scrubbed it right down to the bone. At least it's clean.

I'm hoisted up onto this huge metal pedestal, my naked body cold and unclothed. I feel vulnerable as my prep team circles around my, getting rid of last minute hairs or fixing up small marks. I just shut my eyes and cross my arms around my chest, waiting it out in the cold.

But then, I'm asked to leave the pedestal and led into yet another room - a small, shiny one with white walls and bright lights - and I see a garment bag hanging on the back of the door. Antonio unzips it for me and shows me what I'll be wearing. It's a bright golden robe, with thin straps, and goes down to below my ankles. It's very flowing, and looks metallic. On the shoulders are soft pads that have a golden fringe on the sides and heavy golden spackles dangle from them, and ripple every time they move.

Immediately I'm homesick. Every time I move, it ripples like a field of grain. But I must tough it out.

My hair is curled, with a perfect part in the middle, and falls in loose, flowing tresses around my shoulders. Then they set the curls with this thick, overly-sweet hairspray that makes me cough. Over my head goes a headdress, made from what looks to be a golden pot with wheat sprouting from it.

My cheeks are filled out with foundation to hide the hollowness from years of lack of nutrition, and coated with a thick, doll-like blush. My lips are smothered in a sparkly golden lipstick, and golden-brown eye shadow is put on my eyelids.

The most gaudy part of this whole costume is the tiny, miniscule stalks of wheat that are glued to each eyelash with complete delicacy, and every time I blink they create little flashes of light throughout the shiny room. They're actually gorgeous, but gaudy in my taste.

I'm escorted through the main entrance, back to the Waiting Area for tributes. This is behind the Avenue of Tributes, a big, warehouse type-structure with multiple levels and bright lights. I gulp as I realize this is where I'll come face-to-face with my potential murderers.

Abel is just as unhappy about his costume as I am mine. He's dressed in a leotard with no sleeves, and tight pants with the same gold spackles I have on my shoulder pads. He's wearing the same headdress, too. He gives me an unhappy look as I encounter him, so I walk to my horses. I notice he's talking to the boy from District 2, who looks well-fed and prepared. They were the Capitol's allies during the Dark Days.

I stroke my horse's mane, a light, sandy colored horse with light blonde hair. I smile as it neighs, and pick up a few sugar cubes from a bowl on the floor and feed them to him. And then they announce it's time to start.

Abel sighs as he makes his way over to me, and avoids making eye contact with me. But he climbs in the chariot, a dark thing that's so high I can barely get into myself.

The doors open at the front of the Waiting Area, the mammoth structures opening themselves to the light for the first time. It must be late at night - or at least, it seems like it - but the Capitol is so lit up that it could be the middle of the day. I can hear the roar of the crowd as the first chariot enters, and I can see glimpses of their "colorful" wardrobe choices over the heads of the tributes in front of me.

I begin to tap my foot as I wait for our chariot to begin moving, and adrenaline begins coursing through me lightly. I have a nervous, jumpy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"What's wrong with you?" Abel asks coldly.

I stop tapping my foot, but I don't look at him. I keep my eyes forward, trained on the back of the female tribute from District 8.

Finally, it's our turn to come out and greet the crowd. I brace myself as the chariot lurches forward, and soon, all I see is color. Splotches here, waves there. And a blinding light. But the anthem of the Capitol mixed with the roar of the crowd pounds in my ear, but I like it.

I force myself to smile and I wave to the Capitol audience, and I catch a glimpse of ourselves on-screen as they rotate around. We do look amazing, much better on screen. Not as gaudy as when you're looking at it close up.

_Tonight is your night_, I tell myself. _Enjoy it._

And I do. All I can do is smile and wave to the crowd and ignore Abel, who does neither, just stares solemnly ahead, his own private defiance of the Capitol. But overall, the grandeur of this moment is unforgettable.

The chariots round over in front of the President's Mansion, where the President himself is standing on the balcony of. A sick feeling enters my stomach when I look at him, but I ignore it and keep smiling. Our chariot rolls over into a strategic spot, and the rest theirs. The anthem ends, but the crowd cheers on.

"Welcome," says the President, "welcome. Tributes - we welcome you. We salute your courage and your sacrifice!"

The cheering crowd grows louder, but my smile fades.

"And we wish you . . ." he continues. "Happy Hunger Games . . .and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

By now, the Capitol citizens cheers are deafening. The President waves to us all and stays there as our chariots lurch forward once again, back to the Waiting Area. Antonio, my prep team, and Abel's team awaits us.

"That was perfect," Antonio says giddily. "You certainly made a splash!" He says. I smile graciously and look down at my feet, which are covered in light brown sandals. "Would you like to socialize, or would you like to go on up to dinner?" He asks.

"I think we should head upstairs," I say. And we do.

Back at the apartment, I'm forced out of my clothes. I take another shower - hot, this time - and change into silk pajamas that are laid out on my bed. I put them on, exhausted, and crawl under the cool, smooth colors.

And I dream of home.


	4. Chapter 4

"Training," the instructor, Beena, tells us, "is a vital part of how well you will do in the Games. There's survival. Weaponry. Regular, ordinary skills like running. So I suggest you use your time wisely and make sure you'll remember them in the arena."

I shift uncomfortably from where I'm standing, a semi-circle of tributes around Beena. She's extremely tall, with muscular features and short hair. I'm uncomfortable - I want to put off the arena as long as possible, yet I'll never forget it when I'm in this room.

She starts us off by having us all do the Gauntlet - a giant obstacle course - in which I do surprisingly well in. I'm small, not length wise, but petite. I'm light; quick on my feet. And I breeze through the variation of levels and dodge the foam weapons in an impressive fashion. I surprise even myself.

Next, we're allowed to go off on our own. I decide to study edible roots and berries first; that might help me a lot in the arena. I approach the instructor, a short woman with bright red hair, and she smiles. She doesn't introduce herself, though, and that's fine by me. Just starts teaching me about roots and berries I'll find in the arena.

I study these for about an hour - until I'm sure I'll remember them. I'll touch up on them briefly for the rest of the week, I decide, but now I'll go to something more up-front. I walk over to the knife-throwing station, taking a risk. Stepping out of my comfort zone.

Because I'm not going to get very far in the arena with just plain survival skills. Oh, no, I need to be prepared, vicious, and take them totally off-guard.

"You hold the knife like this," the trainer says, modeling my fingers after his. Eventually I get a good grip on it, and smile proudly. He tells me to flick my wrist - don't let go yet, just practice.

I flick my wrist until it hurts. It seems like forever - although it's probably only been two minutes. He just stands there, nodding as my skills increase right before my eyes. But then I take a risk - I'm going to get nowhere with flicking my wrist - and let go.

And it lands right in the heart of the dummy.

I turn to him, and his mouth is open. I grin as I eagerly take three more, slamming them back into key places in the dummy - the heart, the neck - and I even do a turn-around. I lose myself in the throwing, discovering I have a cruel knack for it. And then there are no more knives left, I've skewered them all into the dummies before me.

I scan the rest of the tributes, the blood gone from their faces.

* * *

"I heard you've acquired some talent throwing knives," Drucilla reveals at dinner the night after day 2 of training. She takes a sip of her wine - much too pungent for me to consume - and waits expectantly for a response.

"I'm alright," I shrug, although I know my skill is much greater than alright. Just from yesterday and today, I've become _unstoppable_. Is it because of my petite frame? Am I small but menacing? Or athletic and perseverant?

Abel considers this and pipes in, "She's great. I've seen her in training."

This takes me by surprise. "What?" I ask, astonished. Abel Stilman is complimenting me? I thought he hated me. He sure didn't make an effort to tell me I was okay. All I can manage to say is, "I'm alright, that's that. I guess we'll see in the arena."

* * *

There's something strange about being good at something - especially throwing knives. It's a skill I never thought about, much less thought I'd be _good_ at. I continue to practice throwing in training throughout the rest of the week, and before I know it, the next day is the private training session with the Gamemakers.

After waiting in the stone-cold room that serves us tributes waiting for what seems like forever, the electronic, high-pitched voice announces, "Penelope Tarrett." Abel gives me a stiff nod and I turn around, walking out of the multiple layers of protective - or trapping - doors. I can feel my heartbeat increasing wildly, the sound of my training boots on the cold gymnasium floor. The Gamemakers aren't completely drunk yet, I still have a few good minutes out of them before they'll stop paying attention.

Without announcing my presence, I swish over to the knife-throwing station, a place I've become very familiar with over the past few days.

The first knife lands into the heart of the dummy before they realize I'm here.

With each throw comes more exhilaration in my veins. My adrenaline rises, I bite my tongue and crease my forehead in focus, and each throw gets better than the last.

Can't stop now.

Throw after throw, knife lodged after knife lodged, I am content. Finally, I'm happy. Let's hope I don't forget this skill in the arena.

When there are no more knives left to throw, I examine my work, the corners of my mouth upturning a little bit at the sight of it. The dummies - four of them - are plastered with knives. Each in strategic places - heart, neck, ankles - and I see a chip off of the handle of a knife and another knife right next to it. I must've hit it exactly where I did before.

And then I walk out, trying to keep my head high.


	5. Chapter 5

"Tonight is your final interview; you'll want to impress the crowd. Make sure they don't forget you; they'll be your final sponsors." Drucilla looks around at us as if thinking this is the most obvious thing in the world, then takes a sip of a bright blue liquid from her glass. She purses her lips.

"Of course, you'll have training sessions with me. Both of you," she adds. "I'll help you with etiquette; what angle you choose is up to you."

Abel takes a bite of veal and rubs his temple. "What do you mean, 'angle'?" He waits expectantly for a reply as Drucilla washes down the last bit of purple beans and lemony sauce with more of the blue liquid. Then she is served sautéed vegetables by a silent servant they call an Avox.

Drucilla responds promptly. "You want a certain angle for your interview; some way the crowd will remember you."

When Abel still looks confused, she adds, "Witty, charming, clever, sexy, et cetera. Anything along those lines. Just make sure you come up with a distinct personality the audience will _like_."

We finish the rest of the meal in silence, and we decide that Abel shall go first in his etiquette lessons while I brainstorm angles for the Interview and get ready with my stylist before my turn comes.

Antonio, my stylist and Drucilla's brother, is sporting a blond hairstyle (a pompadour, he calls it) with a turquoise streak at the front. His eyes are smothered in a creamy turquoise eye shadow and fake eyelashes with pink swirls at the ends. He welcomes me, as if he's been waiting in my bedroom the whole time. "Let's get you made up," he says, and acknowledges a chair behind him.

After my makeup and hair is done by my prep team, Antonio continues.

"Your dress is in the bathroom," he says with a smile in his Capitol-accent. "When you're in your interview . . .when Lucio asks, click your heels together. Once."

I unzip the sleek black bag to find a gorgeous gown.

It's an off-white, ivory color, metallic, and so silky I fear it's liquid. And it's so smooth - I don't know what in the world it's made of, but it feels soft and cool against my skin. It's a slim one that hugs even my malnourished frame tightly, coming down to my ankles but utterly flexible. I have no trouble walking. And the beautiful, elegant neckline is embellished with pearls, so many pearls.

But there's another dress bag underneath that. I curiously unzip it to see that there is a skirt - extremely long, probably trailing behind me - made of sparkly gold tulle and in long, flowy layers. I guess I'm supposed to pull it on over this. And I do. I slip it on along with the secret belt that goes under it and examine myself in the wall-length mirror on the far side of the room.

And I am a changed person.

* * *

I adjust my tiara, a glass, shimmering thing, as I try to avoid the looks of hatred from the rest of the tributes. I'm waiting backstage for my Interview. They haven't started yet, but I just want to get it over with. The rest of the tributes don't look to shabby - they clean up nicely - but obviously Antonio has done me no favors by making me the center of attention, at least in the minds of my competitors.

But I know the Capitol crowd will remember me. And that's all that matters.

I sit, trying not to wrinkle my dress, on the glass bench designed for the waiting tributes. I cross my legs, sitting as upright as possible. I look down to my lap, trying to speed up the minutes waiting as quickly as possible. I also want the churning in my stomach to end.

The Interviews have begun, beginning with District 1. The girl, Essence, is beautiful, looking innocent and pure with her doll-like face. She looks about as harmless as a kitten, which I'm sure she is. And the boy, Divine I think they called him, makes almost no impression on me.

All I can remember about the District 2 tributes is that they're both massive in size, menacing, and well-fed. This must be because they were the Capitol's allies during the Rebellion, so they've been better fed their whole lives. Maybe they even were informed of the Hunger Games before its announcement and trained.

I couldn't quite make out the names for District 3, but they're both scarily thin - even more than I - and extremely pale. Their district works on technology, probably in fumy factories. They've probably never seen the sun. And all I can hear from District 4 through the chatter of the tributes around me is that the girl's name is Odessa Cascadia.

I can see my reflection in the glass bench, and I'm startled at how different I look. I look beautiful, gorgeous even, the blush on my caramel-colored cheeks looking utterly natural. The dark, smoky-makeup on my eyes makes me look much older than I actually am. I would call it gaudy, but this is the Capitol. My hair has been given extensions of its own dark brown color and put in big ringlets, hanging over my shoulders and so stiff with hairspray that it feels like sticks.

On top of my head is a tiny tiara that is embellished with diamonds and reflects light off of everything possible, so much that I have to take it off and cover it with my hands. I can hear the rest of the tributes talking about me - what are they saying? All I can manage to hear is my name a few times in their conversations, but nothing else. So, what is the big deal?

Hector, the District 5 male, has skin so pale but hair so dark that he literally looks like a walking contradiction. Everything contrasts with each other - even his outfit is black and white - and he doesn't look too happy.

I look over towards the tributes behind me - the crowd is thinning. But they all stare at me, their words covered with their hands as they talk with their districts partners. I must look confused or something, because they turn even more away from me. I can hear "Welcome, Juneau," from the interview host, Lucio Tenefield, and assume that it's the District 7 male.

After what seems like hours, my interview arrives, and I'm whisked onto the stage.

* * *

"Welcome - Penelope Tarrett," Lucio Tenefield says slowly as he takes my hand. An awed hush blankets the crowd, they sit still. You can hear a pin drop, but not in an awkward way. Sort of a - beautiful silence. "You look so beautiful tonight," he says without force, "would you like to take a seat?"

I give a faint smile as I sit down, giving the best posture I can. _Remember what Drucilla told you_, I remind myself, _posture, politeness, and promptness._

"How are you finding the Capitol?" He asks friendlily. He awaits a response.

"It's magnificent," I reply truthfully. "Everyone has been so nice. And there are so many amenities we don't have at home -"

"Like what?" He asks with a grin. He's probably heard this all before.

I choose my words carefully. "Showers, warm food, clean clothes. It's all I could ever ask for. But it's better," I say. I cock my head to the side just a little bit. The angle I've chosen is naïve but charming. "I mean - just look at this dress."

"Yes, that certainly is something," he says, grinning with his white teeth showing towards the crowd. "And what about those wings on the back?"

What? Wings? Confused, I look at my back, and there they are. Delicate, tiny wings, made from a thin gold material, streaked with silver and dusted with gold. I almost gasp. This must be what the other tributes were whispering about. "I didn't see those before," I say. "Thank you for telling me!" I say with a smile.

And then I stand up - not knowing whether I should or not - and click my heels.

I can feel the wings growing heavier by the second, and pretty soon, I can easily see them over my shoulder. They've grown probably three times their original size, and they bat gently without me doing a thing. But they're not too heavy, just large. But the perfect size for an angel. Or a bird.

The crowd hoots and hollers and cheers, and the rush that I experienced on the Avenue of Tributes comes back to me full force. In the heat of the moment, I grin, soaking it all up. I hope my mother can see me now, how well I'm doing. And I hope she isn't worrying too much.

"Wow!" Lucio exclaims. "I can say truthfully that this is far most impressive, don't you think, folks?" He asks. The wings continue to bat, and the crowd cheers on. Gaudy? Yes. Impressive? Of course.

And my interview continues on.

"I have another question," Lucio says, helping me balance by taking my hand. The crowd's roar dulls down, and I try to mentally recover from what in the world just happened.

"Yes?" I ask kindly.

"How do you think you'll fare in the Games?" He asks, gulping a little bit. But his eyes remain cool and steady.

Has he asked the rest of the tributes this? I don't think so.

My voice a little more unsteady, I reply as honestly as I can. "I don't know," I tell him sadly. "All I know is that . . . that I'll have to do well. I'll have to win. I . . . I made a promise to myself, after the Reaping."

The crowd is completely silent now, soaking up every word. I hear a few aww's from the back. "I'll have to try," I conclude.

Lucio nods, and the buzzer goes off, ending my three minutes. "Good luck," he says, and takes my hand again. "Penelope Tarrett, the Girl who could Fly!" The crowd roars once again, and I'm escorted off the stage.

Drucilla, Antonio and my prep team welcome me backstage. "They loved you," Antonio assures me. "You nailed it. Congratulations," he says. I accept graciously. But I don't feel happy.

I did nail the interview; I know that. But will I nail my time in the arena?


	6. Chapter 6

I awake lurching forward, soaked in sweat, my bed sheets sticky with perspiration from a night of restless sleep. I sigh and put a hand to my forehead, wiping the plastered hair off of it. It must not be too early, because the sun is shining bright and high in the sky.

Glancing at my clock, I can see it's a little past 8 in the morning. That means the Games start in 2 hours. I shut my eyes and collapse back on the bed, trying to make sense of it.

But Drucilla comes rapping at my door, apparently not able to contain her excitement. The First Annual Hunger Games should be a hit; the Capitol is extremely excited. Unfortunately, I'm not.

I start a shower, standing in the steaming hot water for as long as I can before deciding I need to get out. I stand in the body dryer for longer than I need to, trying to drag out the minutes.

It's funny, I don't feel scared - just tired. Like I'd be okay with being a tribute, any other day. But today everything I do is drawled, I'm constantly yawning. I needed more sleep; but sleep wouldn't come. And that's really what I needed.

On my bed is an outfit - one I don't like. It's a dark green shirt with cargo pants and a thick canvas belt, with leather hiking boots and long wool socks. I can only imagine what it will be used for specifically.

I put them on slowly - it probably takes me fifteen minutes just to get the whole thing assembled - and by the time I'm done, it's 9:15. I just killed over an hour, and there's still 45 minutes till my untimely death.

* * *

I find myself in the launch room beneath the arena. Antonio awaits me, excitedly, and puts me into a shiny jacket with a zipper. "I can zip it myself," I snap at him.

Then I sit down on a bench and shut my eyes, trying to stop the tears from coming. Today I might die. Today I'll probably be hurt. And my mother's watching; my mother, who has lost so much already. If I die, she'll be scarred forever.

"_Twenty seconds_," an electronic, high-pitched voice says. Antonio becomes giddy with excitement, and turns on a television that takes up much of one wall. It's Lucio Tenefield, reviewing the rules and such before the Games start. I begin to shake when he reminds us that there's only one survivor.

"_Ten seconds_," the voice says again. Alert, I perk my head up, and I can feel my eyes go wide. The adrenaline starts hitting me like a ton of bricks.

Slowly, cautiously, I make my way towards the launch pad. I hesitantly put a foot onto its metal surface, and eventually step inside.

Quickly, the glass door swings around, encasing me in its cold, unforgiving tube. I give a small, strangled sound out of my throat reflexively. I put my hands on the glass as it begins to rise, and pretty soon I can feel a warm wind blow on my face.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the 1st Annual Hunger Games begin!"

* * *

The sixty-second countdown begins, and I scan the arena. The tributes all look pale and scared, probably mirroring my face exactly. We're at the edge of a cliff, the Cornucopia barely peeking over the pointy edge. We're in a field of dying brown grass, the sky is blue and the insects hum. Behind me, I can just make out taller grasses and lots of hills, and a dense forest that must expand for miles.

I take a deep breath and face the Cornucopia as the countdown nears thirty seconds. I can see lots of knives on the ground - hopefully for me - and countless backpacks, bins of supplies, tents, sleeping bags, and swords and maces and axes nearer to the center. I need to go for it - I really do. So I position myself.

It's really a beautiful place; much like my home with its soft breeze and blue sky. It's mild out, which is good. I'd been fearing it'd be scorching hot or ice cold. But it's actually sort of pretty.

If children weren't about to die on it.

The clock nears ten, seeming to go quicker by the minute. I get in my stance, ignoring the other tributes, and put a scowl on my face. Today I will prove everyone who doubted me wrong. Today I will show that I am more than I naïve little girl with gossamer wings. That I can be cold and ruthless, that I won't give up.

Just then, the countdown ends, and I fly off my plate.

* * *

I dart towards the first knives I saw, while scooping up almost every backpack or plastic container I encounter on the way. I can feel the wind on my face as I whiz by, pulling almost three backpacks on, and I jerk my head around to look for others before I stumble down and pick up a vest with dozens of knives in it, cutting my hand on one.

I can see people fighting already towards the center, with swords and axes and such, so I decide to take everything I can. And quickly.

A glint of metal catches my eye, and without even checking to see what it is, I dash towards it and pick it up as well.

I hear the clash of metal on metal right behind me, and instinctively do a turn-around throw, and it lodges in the heart of the District 1 male, Divine. His chocolate brown hair covers his eyes after he falls.

My first kill.

Snatching a water bottle on my way back, I head towards the long grasses, and my goal is to be deep inside the forest by the end of the day.

I can hear moans and screams of agony behind me, getting softer as I distance myself. I organize my things on the way as best I can, putting three backpacks on my back and putting the water bottle and bins of food in my pockets. But I don't stop fleeting.

I'm inside the long grass by now, so tall that my head barely peeks over the top. It sways in the breeze. Pretty soon, I have no idea what direction I'm going. But it thins out soon enough, and I am inside the forest.

My guess is that I'm not on camera right now; that they're covering the Bloodbath in as much detail as possible. I hope as many people die as possible, so I can go home sooner.

I run for what seems like hours, until my legs give out and I can't go anymore. I force myself to walk into the crook of a large boulder and a few large tree trunks, a nice resting spot, out of harm's way. At least for a little while. They've probably darkened the sky a little. It seems like nightfall. Through the dense treetops I can just make out stars, and I smile a little bit.

I'm panting, and try to steady my breathing. I'm deep inside the woods, a lot farther than I'd even hoped of reaching by the end of today.

I hear the first cannon. But I'm not expecting it, so I panic for a moment. Another cannon. Three. Then eight more. Must be the Bloodbath deaths.

Eleven of us gone, thirteen left. Twelve for me to outlast.

I decide to examine the contents of what I got from the Cornucopia. If they're still fighting, I can't hear it. I open up the first bag to find three packs of crackers, a bottle of iodine, and a pair of socks. The two other bags hold similar items. Not a bad result.

The crickets come out and play for me, and I decide to scale a tree nearby. Better to be hiding up high than at an easy reach.

I select my tree carefully - one with flowing leaves, that will hide my presence from the naked eye. I climb it remarkably quickly, and steady myself near the trunk. Since there's no rope in my bags, I come to the annoying conclusion that I'll having to hug it tight all night. Sighing, I wrap my arms around the sturdy trunk.

The anthem comes on, and I find the Capitol seal on the sky with a label that says "The Fallen". It shows the eleven that died today. First up is Divine. Then comes the female from 3 - which means Essence and the two from 2 are alive. No surprise there. The boy from 4 and Hector from 5. Both from 6 and 7. The male from 8 and finally, the girl from 12.

Thirteen left, including Abel and myself.

While comforting myself in the fact that I'm far away from the rest, somehow I find sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

_I'm running through the forest, the night so still and eerie that every heartbeat feels and sounds like a drum beat. It gets louder. Faster. I can't even hear what or who I'm running from. All I know is that I can barely feel my feet hit the ground; they're so light. And I'm going so fast. _

_Trees whiz past me, and my breathing paces itself. The woods seem haunted, ominous, so unlike the amiable forest that was so hospitable to me earlier. The forest grows denser with each footfall, as least, it seems like it. And branches become more tangled and it grows darker and becomes harder to breathe and I don't know why. I only know one thing: keep running._

_This, I do. And it's surprisingly easy. I flee whatever is chasing me away, deeper and deeper into the forest. There is no moon tonight; the sky is clear. Clear, but powerful and lonely. Finally, I decide that I'm safe from whatever is chasing me and I slow down. I stop to take a breath, pulling out a water bottle from one of my backpacks._

_But then a strange sensation occurs. My feet lift off the ground without me telling them to, and I take off in a sprint again. I can't stop them, they just keep going. And pretty soon, the dense forest thins and I can hear waves crashing in the distance. There's a drop-off right in front of it, and my feet are taking me right towards it._

_I scream, trying to hold my legs so they come to a halt, but nothing happens. They keep going, and the burning grows stronger and stronger. Pretty soon every sound is drowned out by the waves below me, and I fall in._

Before I hit the ground, I wake up.

I groan, a little louder than I had intended, before realizing where I am. I'm perched atop a tree, my first full day in the arena just beginning. My arms are stiff and sore from a night of hugging it close in fear of falling out. There's no sign of human life anywhere - besides me, obviously. My backpacks are strapped securely onto my back and the rest of my supplies are stored in the various pockets in my pants and jacket. My vest I have sat on top of, because I was in a rush yesterday. I put it on and re-strap my backpack before starting my day's journey.

The sun is not too high in the sky, telling me that it's relatively early in the morning. It's still warm outside, but not as balmy as it was yesterday at the start of the Games. I trek through the forest by myself, the leaves crunching underneath my feet. I put my hands to the ponytail at the back of my head and I tighten it instinctively. I'm relatively clean, besides the tiny amount of dirt underneath my fingernails from the Bloodbath yesterday.

I like the solitude and the rhythm of the forest, and find that I quite like it. It's no open expanse of wheat, but it'll do. It's peaceful, and smells delicious, like pine needles. We had a meal after training one day that was drizzled in a sauce made from pine needles. It's an earthy but cozy smell.

After about half an hour of distancing myself from any nearing tributes, it dawns on me how much I need food and water. The water bottle is not filled, but I have iodine to do so. But my meager supply of food won't last me long. At least I studied roots and berries in Training last week.

Perhaps I am live on television now. It certainly doesn't feel that way. However they film us, it's not easy for the tributes to see or hear the cameras. But if I am on camera, I want people to know that I'm resourceful and knowledgeable. That I can handle myself, and I won't let their supplies go to waste.

I find a thin brook and follow it upstream, scanning the area for bushes of berries and any tributes that may have stumbled their way here. Across the river, I make out a bunch of red berries, partially hidden from view. Without hesitation, I wade through the creek, letting the cool water soothe my aching feet. And when I step out on the other side, they feel a little better somehow.

I approach the berries with caution; people could be setting me up for a trap. With my stomach growing hungrier, I examine them as well as possible without mincing time. They look to be a berry that I remember as being called Barberry. I take a few in a tiny container I've hidden in one of my pants pockets, and fill it to the brim with them. They come off easily.

Feeling a little better now, I head back towards the stream behind me. I look through my backpacks, searching to see if there's any mesh like material I can use to filter any dirt off from the berries. When I don't find any, I decide to skin the berries with one of my knives, and preserve the skins for later usage.

After doing this, I fill my water bottle and put the amount of iodine that the instructors told us to do. Then I sit down and wait for it to filter, creating a comfortable spot on the dirt besides the stream. Feeling somehow safe, I strip off my socks and shoes and dip my toes in the refreshing water. _Oh, yeah, _I think to myself, _I have this in the bag._ Because right now, I'm on top of the world.

Judging by the placement of the sun, I reckon it's been about half an hour. I put my socks and leather hiking boots back on and pour a small amount into the plastic container with the berries, moving them around in my fingers. This I find soothing; relaxing. A break from the stress that is plaguing me just from being where I am.

I eat about a dozen of the skinned berries, saving the skins in a different container. They're bitter, sour things, but I can't exactly be picky right now. I drink a little water from the bottle I've filled up and start heading even more upstream, hoping I don't have to err away from the brook. It could very well be the only water supply in the entire arena, although I hope to stay away from that conclusion.

Moving slower, in longer strides, I take off again. I can see the birds flying from tree to tree, hear their quaint sounds. There's a constant, cool breeze that makes my spine tingle. It's strange to think that this is even better than home, at least how it is right now. I'd rather be sleeping in trees than in tents. I walk with my hands gripped to my backpacks straps, and survey the area with each step.

There's a rustle in the bushes across the thin stream. I freeze, adrenaline rushing through me already. Is there someone there, or is it an animal?

The rustling grows louder, and my eyes widen. I slide out a knife from my vest and have it in-hand, ready to go if needed. I could be dead in a minute.

It's just a squirrel, as I figure out when it pops out of the bushes. I sigh a breath of relief. It starts to pounce away before I realize the opportunity I'm missing.

The squirrel is dead before it can turn to see who I am. I put him in a second container, my last. I'll cook him later. But it must be soon, or I won't have daylight left to shield the smoke from other peoples' views.

Supplies in hands, I venture out further. I trek about a mile, it seems, before the day starts to fall. I start a small - very, very small - fire, and sharpen a stick with one of my knives. But gutting and skinning the squirrel has proved to be quite a tedious task, as I didn't study it in the Training Center. But my fire is something to be proud of.

Shielding the smoke with a few large leaves I find and keeping everything dry enough so it won't create too much of a scene is another arduous task. The day has turned to night, and the air moister. Is it crazy for me to think they're doing this on purpose? As I think about it, I jerk up a little straighter. Again, I could be on camera this very moment. I let my eyes fall for a moment, just a moment, to calm myself down.

* * *

The next thing I know, it's evening. I scramble to try and remember where I am, how long I've been asleep. "Oh, no," I say, remembering the squirrel and the fire. I whip my head around - and breathe a sigh of relief, and of surprise.

The squirrel looks perfect. The golden brown skin is shiny with grease so tempting that it takes all I have not to grab it right off the griddle and eat it whole. No, I must ration it. Delicately, I take it off the stick and chop off the head - while looking away, of course. Then I hack off another small piece and consume it with a few berries from my other container. A sip of water. A refill in the cool, rocky stream. Then, I find myself another tree and say goodnight.

* * *

It's another beautiful morning. The skies are clear and warm, a slight breeze is constant. The smell of pine permeates the air and fills my nostrils. The sun filters through the dense treetops overhead. There's not a person in sight.

However, something is telling me something drastic will happen today.

I sense it. It's been over a day without any deaths. If I know the Capitol as well as I think I do, their audience will want more bloodshed. And I know for a fact that the Gamemakers will force it upon us if it doesn't happen naturally.

_Stay on guard_, I tell myself. If anything looks fishy, bolt the other direction. Should be easy enough, running is a skill of mine, and thriving while doing the Gauntlet in training proves that I can weave through things easily. That will come in handy considering I'm currently in a dense forest.

The river should still be the best place to hike by, and I stand by that. Quick refills and quick getaways prove this further. I am able to move swiftly through it, dodging over rocks and practically flying through its currents. After all, I _am_ the Girl who could Fly.

Suddenly, everything seems to freeze. The birds stop chirping, the wind dies down a little, the river becomes quieter somehow. I stop cold in my tracks and await the new horror.

I'm darting through the forest before the first explosion reaches my level of view in the sky. It was a loud, loud crash from just a half a mile over, and there are probably more on their way. Sprinting as fast as I can, going nowhere yet everywhere at the same time, I hear explosions nearing behind me. I turn around for a split second and survey one just a few yards away, exploding from the ground and leaving hot scraps of metal just inches from my constantly-moving feet. The smell is acrid, the greenish smoke left behind falling in thick, opaque tendrils that I'm sure I couldn't see my own hand through if I tried.

More explosions. Scraps of metal and other things used in explosives seem to rain down from above, jumping out of the ground and falling back. One catches my cheek and I wince in pain. I can hear the sizzle of skin. But I'm determined to keep bolting to a more open, clearer spot.

Where that may be, I don't know. But persistence is key, especially here. The time has come to fight, and the time has come to die.

But not for me.

The explosions don't die down. Not at all. I catch my foot in a web of forest vine on the ground and one of the spikes pricks at my leg. My quick thinking tells me not to push through it - no, that might cause a gash - but unhook it. And quickly. But I feel a rumbling under my feet and I launch myself forward, pricking all over my legs but I don't care. You can see the explosion right next to my feet, as I scramble to get back up and pull through. My world has turned to a gaseous green substance and its foul smell, coming now from all sides except in front of me. There's nothing that I can see. All I have to depend on is the tiny thread of hope that there won't be explosions in front of me. That if I keep going straight, I'll get out of this mess.

I stuff my face in the collar of my shirt in hopes that I can escape inhaling these noxious fumes, at least for a little while. Still running, always running . . .

All of a sudden, I crash into something. Or someone. I can see light brown, almost blonde hair at the top of the shrouded mist, and I scream. Someone's there. Immediately, I push past them as they hurry to get to their feet.

But they don't go the other way. They keep following me. More panicked than ever, I speed up, and let a knife fly behind me. I can hear a shriek, but I can still sense their presence. Soon the trees thin out and I'm at the outskirts of the Cornucopia field, and the bombs subside. But the ringing remains lodged in my ear.

Stopping to take a breath, I duck behind a few bushes and begin to take out my water bottle. The exertion has left me parched. But the figure, dressed in a bright yellow jacket, comes bolting out from behind me. She has pale, pale skin and surprisingly clean blondish hair. Her eyes are a light, piercing blue that seem to look right through you. She looks to be about 15 or 16 years of age. I recognize her as the female from District 5.

"I'm Lilea," she says through coughs. She seems surprisingly comfortable around me, while I can just manage to keep my mouth slightly closed and stumble back a few steps in fear she might attack me. But she doesn't seem to look crazy, but intense. She extends a hand, but I don't return the favor. "I've been watching you," she confesses.

"W-what?" I ask, a little shocked. No - _very_ shocked.

"I found you the night after the Cornucopia bloodbath. So I distanced myself and I've been following you ever since. I was hoping," she starts, "I was hoping we could be allies."

I purse my lips and look around for any sign of suspicion, that someone will come out and attack me, but none come forward. And - what am I supposed to say? No? Just run away? No, I'll stick it out. Abandon her in her sleep of something.

She persists. "What do you say?"

"Uh, uh . . .sure," I say, my face stoic.

Her face lights up. "Great! Where do you think we should set up camp?" She asks. Obviously she's just been following from my actions. I can see her hands are fairly clean, which leads me to believe she bathed when I did. In fact, she's pretty clean, except for a cut just about her lip and a nick right below her right temple. The nick on her cheek looks fresh, so I'm afraid it might've been from my knife. Snapping myself back to her question, I just shrug.

"I guess we should get out of here," is all I can say, and she agrees. She scans the field for other tributes, and sees none. So we go off. Together.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sinister - Sequel to Deadly**

**~Coming Summer 2013~  
**

If there's one thing I regret, it's agreeing to this alliance with Lilea. She's done absolutely nothing to help out our agreement; she's just been following me and whatever I do. "Make a fire," I'll say, and she'll ask for guidance. "Rinse these berries off in the stream," I'll say, and she'll accidentally let go of them in the swift river. The only reason I keep her is because I'm grateful for the company.

I'll have to leave her soon, I know that. In her sleep, just take whatever supplies I contributed and leave her to her own devices. Two people have died since that day she approached me - the girl from 4, Odessa Cascadia, I think died in the minefield attacks. The other death is the girl from 2, from unknown causes.

That means there are 11 left? I don't know. Eleven. 13 innocent lives have been lost for no reason.

However, I don't exactly have room to complain about that right now. The competition is thinning out. Although that means my time in the arena won't be as long now, it means the challenges will probably become increasingly difficult and my chances might not even change anyway.

That can't happen to me. No, I must keep fighting till the moment I die. Whether that is somewhere in District 9 when I'm an old woman, or a healthy 13 year-old girl in this arena, is up to fate. I'm just praying it's not the latter.

"Lilea," I start. Her head perks up from our resting spot at the root of a large pine tree. "Can you go purify some water? Use this bottle and find some iodine out of my backpack," I tell her.

"I don't know how," she admits, not fazed in the least.

Groaning, I venture down to the stream and do it myself while Lilea watches, uneager to learn herself. But I try to show her how anyways. Put this many drops of iodine in. Fill the bottle just below the brim. Wait half an hour. She nods after each step I tell her.

We sleep. Travel north upstream. I hunt. "Can you keep a look out for other tributes while I gather some berries?" I ask hopefully, and she nods. Then she follows me, and I tell her to stay across the stream as I gather stuff on the other side.

Thankfully, no one comes. But if they did, I'm not positive Lilea would warn me.

* * *

It's cooler now, probably the coolest night in the arena so far. The sky is clear, the air crisp and with a slight breeze. Lilea suggests I start a fire. I tell her that's a good way to get her killed. _Her_, because I'd be doing all the work like always.

She pulls out a thick sleeping bag, one of her little supplies she snagged from the Cornucopia, and I pull out my thinner one. With my help, we both scale a tree with two sturdy branches opposite each other, and tie ourselves in to opposing sides. I can hear her breathing heavily on the other side of the trunk, and I lie awake for most of the night. Thinking. Sighing. Remembering home.

The next day is cloudy. The Gamemakers are probably controlling the weather, I suppose, and that the arena weather does not reflect on the real weather outside. I fear rain will come, so we stick to the trees today. I warn Lilea to put her sleeping back at the top of her backpack, over everything else so it won't get out. Then I do it for her.

The rain starts off by a slight drizzle, then, after an hour or so, the entire sky opens up. It's a warm day, too, which makes it gross and uncomfortable. It drips off of the thick canopies of leaves at the top of the forest, in cool droplets onto Lilea and me. Lilea complains most of the way.

We stop when I can make out another camp in the distance. Wide-eyed, I begin sprinting the opposite direction, already fearing they are following us. I urge Lilea along, taking her hand, and she stumbles after me. We quietly rush through the forest, nearer to the outskirts of the Cornucopia field.

No tributes come. In fact, I don't think anyone was there at the moment. It's almost as if we're alone in this huge place, waiting for something to happen. As day grows to night, my fear diminishes a little, and I begin to breathe again. Lilea stares at the Cornucopia, her eyes numb.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I'm just thinking about that day," she replies. "The Bloodbath. It became so real then," she confides. "It hit me then, that I was going to die."

She's even more helpless and scared than I am, which is hard to believe. Her honey blonde hair practically glows in the late afternoon sun, as well as her skin, making her look healthier than she is. You can see it in her figure - petite, to the point of emaciation. It's hard to grasp, but I think District 3 might be even more poverty-struck than District 9 is. Although I can't find the words to reply to her cry, that's okay with her, because after a few minutes of silent sobbing, her breathing steadies and she's asleep again.

_Now's your chance_, I tell myself, _take everything and ditch her. You'll work better by yourself_, I think.

It would be awfully cruel to leave a girl who can barely manage herself except in the hygiene department by herself, but I don't want to take my chances. If I stay with her, she'll decrease my chances of getting out of this hell-hole. So I know what I must do.

I gently slip on my backpack and touch her cheek, soft and flushed, before departing across the field and into the other side of the forest.


End file.
